The Legion of Dawn: The Fury Of Storms
by jerseydanielgibson
Summary: Since the beginning, they protected us. Suffering great losses, we revile them. The Age of Heroes has come to a close as threats of the world encroach our cities. Yet one lone survivor rises while the rest of her kin break. One lone guardian braves where others fall, there in our time of need; the last member of the Legion of Dawn, she who is the Fury of Storms. [First in Category]
1. The Siren's Call Shall Wake The Dead, I

_Get your Day 1 update here! And… your Day 2… Day 3…_

_BioWare is responsible for yet another franchise: Anthem. _

**The Northern Wall, Fort Tarsis, Northern Bastion, Mirrus, Summerset 22, 466 LV**

* * *

"_In the beginning, there was the Legion._

"_We struggled in a world that knew no order nor mercy. Men huddled inside defenses and prayed to the Gods that had left us for respite. Generations of those who sought cover wished for the chaos to end in any fashion; those wishes were in vain._

"_Until General Helena Tarsis created the first Javelin and the Legion of Dawn._

"_Those first few years came with the rising knowledge of heroes and legends as men and women adorned their armor and battled a waging war against the world, to press back the Anthem of Creation and its many threats and dangers. Scores of adventures and thrillseekers filled the ranks of the Legion as engineers, Arcanists, traders, and the sensitive joined the ranks to fulfill the need of those stalwart guardians with whatever they needed; better armor, better weapons, knowledge, research, supplies, communication. Years turned to decades as the first of the Legion retired to make way for the next generation, leading with experience as new heroes arose to protect the settlements and cities of Bastion. Where there was danger, there was the Legion._

"_It has been centuries since those times. And those times are long since gone._

"_It is hard to pinpoint when things began to crumble, when the numbers of Lancers began to drop, and the forces outside of our cities and settlements began to push back. It has always been a threat, but it became a reality. Contracts were slowly piling up with too few members able to accomplish them. Those that took them found themselves even more outnumbered than before. Expeditions and advances were fewer and farther in between as the many Guilds and Teams began taking losses, failing their contracts, losing the respect and acknowledgment they deserved._

"_The loss of Freemark was a hard, hard blow._

"_The Heart of Rage… even worse._

"_It was with great sadness to see our defenders brought so low, their vastly-dwindled numbers barely able to forage into the wilds. Hundreds of Lancers had died protecting Freemark, fighting a new enemy that no one had expected, never giving up or giving in. Guilds, both old and new, were extinguished that day, the names and memories lost like the lives that were vanquished under the tyrannical boot of the Dominion. Those heroes of old, the ancient Guild of the Legion of Dawn, had nearly been wiped out by the Dominion, its legendary members holding the horde of aggressors back with their very lives as the city was evacuated. It was said that only five survived out of what was once a hundred members, and even then those survivors did not make it out without a heavy price. Too many Lancers died that day, more than on any other day on record. They died doing what they did best; meeting the threat head-on, with weapons in their hands and fire in their souls. Those very fires extinguished was the first clear sign that the Age of Heroes would soon be coming to an end._

"_And it was the Heart of Rage that was the hammerfall._

"_The greatest of cataclysms ever known, the Heart of Rage produced threats unlike any before in numbers never recorded. Dozens of Lancers came together under the auspices of the Emperor to silence the threat and restore their falling honor. Led by the last members of the Legion of Dawn, the strike was one of a scale never before known, bearing numbers and forces that had never been so concentrated. The threat was very real, and those we had known our whole lives to protect us all would not fail us in our time of need. They came out in numbers, they came out strong, they came out prepared._

"_Gods Above, so very few came back._

"_It's been over two years since that time, and the Path of Glory has fallen so low. Once there had been thousands of Lancers; now there were a few dozen at best. What had once been seen as heroes were now viewed as failures. There were those who used the situation to their advantage, leaders and Sentinels calling out the failure for what it was, the reduced numbers privy to negative public opinion and backlash. Those few survivors who had went to save us all came back to an ungrateful people, licking their wounds in the shadows we had cast them into. Those ancient defenders, those who we needed most, only got to see our back when they needed us in return._

"_So few survived. Oh so very few._

"_Of the Guilds, they are no more. The few operating Lancers left work mostly on the auspices of the few Arcanists who want the use of someone willing to brave for a trinket or relic, or a family member who wishes to know the fate of a lost loved one. Contracts were few and far between, and the few Lancers that still sailed the sky could barely afford the repairs of their Javelins, meeking out a bare existence amongst a population that looked down upon them. Some have quit. Others are in debt eyeballs deep. A few sell their services to any and all who will pay them, the reward but a bare fraction of the lucrative funds they once enjoyed. Times were hard on those stalwart men and women, and we only made it harder._

"_But… there was one…_

"_I met her, before. Before the Heart of Rage. Her father was a member of the Legion of Dawn, the one known as the Titanslayer. Trained her himself, went out to the Heart of Rage together, father and daughter working together for the first time. No one knows what happened out in the depths of that cataclysm, only that she alone return, her armor practically irreparable, the remaining Legion members dead. She spent weeks in recovery, her wounds needing healing from the fight that only a bare handful were have said to have survived, never speaking of it. Of the six members of that ancient order, the Legion of Dawn, it now only boasted a singular survivor. No one knows what happened; the wise are smart enough not to ask, and the foolhardy only need to take one look in her eyes and think otherwise. All that is known is that she returned in her nearly-destroyed Javelin; broken, bleeding, crashing into the tarmac with failing systems and a leaking power core, her cypher dead and she nearly so. _

"_Some label her a coward, though never to her face. Some a traitor, but in even more hush tones. You can still see her, heading out into the wilds in that very same Javelin, a mere ghost of its once prestigious glory, held together by low-paying, few and far between jobs done by a woman who is the last of her kind. When you see her in the Market, know she will never talk to you. It isn't personal; she has nothing to say to a people who have scorned her and spit on the memory of the hero she gladly called 'father'. When you see her in the Plaza, do yourself a favor and don't point and stare; it's rude, and you certainly don't want to be the target of that scarred face or those haunted eyes. _

"_Yet despite all that, she is here. She goes out into the wilds where once Guilds and teams foraged to protect us, but she does so alone. When there is a threat on the horizon or at our very gates, you will find her there. When a Strider is attacked, when Arcanists are in danger, when reconnaissance is needed, when a relic is needed recovered or silenced, seek her out. When a family member goes missing, when a Sentinel patrol goes dark, when the Scar becomes too aggressive, look for her face. For those who have turned their back on her, know that we have never seen hers. She answers the calls, completes the contracts, returns victorious to a population filled with disdain for a pittance. When you are in need, know her name, our last member of the Legion of Dawn. She may be called Yanya Valencia, but that will not be the name you use when you are in need. She is the hammer of the heavens, the scourge of the wilds, the vanquisher of foes. When you are in need, you will call her name;_

"_The Fury of Storms." _

_\- "The Legend of the Fury of Storms, the Siren of Tarsis", Cypher Owen Corley, c. 467_

* * *

Sentinel Lieutenant Ryssa Brin stood her post in her Sentinel-oriented Javelin _Ranger_-Class Suit, manning the great walls of Fort Tarsis in her duel-role of both protector and supervisor. The sun had come to Bastion under a blood-red dawn; the old tale that spoke of future tragedy that would occur before dusk. Ryssa wasn't one to give into tales and legends, but the portent had her at unease, especially upon a day like today, where dozens of Lancers and their remaining forces had set out on the great expedition known as _Operation: Stormbreaker_. The Lancers had fallen on hard times these past few years, their numbers having taken a drastic fall during the Siege of Freemark, hundreds dying protecting the great city to buy the populous time to evacuate on Striders ten years prior. Many Javelins and pilots had been lost that day, and many amongst the people whispered that it was the dawn of the end of the Age of Heroes; that the Lancers had taken a crippling blow that they had yet to recover from in almost a decade. While the Sentinel Lieutenant wasn't exactly keen on the Lancers, a ragtag motley bunch of thrillseekers and gloryhounds that reveled in boastful deeds and draped themselves in the spoils of their victories, she had grown up admiring them when she was a child. As had they all. When the call came for the Lancers to prepare to launch a great offensive against the growing cataclysm known as the Heart of Rage, it filled people with hope, hope that had slowly been extinguishing these past years. Hope for the return of an Age where honor flew high and Lancers stood amongst the people of the great cities as the heroes they were.

Yet the news had come just an hour prior. News of loss, news of failure. Hope had died with the announcement of the loss of over sixty Lancers that had failed to quell the Heart of Rage.

"Lieutenant? An incoming report from Heilost." Came a voice from her right, and Brin turned to see Sentinel Gan Nex standing there in his own Javelin, a Ranger-Class Suit adorn with the tabbard of the Sentinels, a young man who had passed the Sentinel Academy in the past few months to become one of those proud few who manned the wall of Fort Tarsis, rode on the back of a Strider, or pulled patrols in the surrounding environs. Someone as new as him usually pulled duty on one of the many watchtowers that rooked the walls, with defenses ready to hold back anything that would threaten the city and its people. He was a young man with the light in his eye thinking that he had to prove himself in a fashion that would likely get himself into a hot mess recklessly. They were all that young, once.

"Report." Ryssa replied.

"City Cyphers confirm that _Operation: Stormbreaker_ was an utter disaster, Lieutenant." Nex replied, his Javelin-augmented voice coming from the suits' vox and towards her own audio receptors. So, it was as they feared. Reports had been coming in all day concerning the expedition, ranging from travel, readiness, deployment, encounters… and losses. That a Lancer would fall in battle was a sad thing, but not uncommon. But the numbers had grown, swelling quickly after the first hour of battle as the outnumbered Lancers were quickly beleaguered with swelling enemy forces and growing casualties. There had been reports that a brave few had reached the Heart of Rage itself, taking the battle to the apex of its existence to silence whatever was causing the cataclysm. That had filled Ryssa with hope despite the losses of Lancers, Striders, and Cyphers that had been occurring.

An hour ago, they had learned that a full retreat had been called, the operation a failure.

"Is that all?" Brin asked, not exactly pleased that she was being handed a report that was so similar to the one she had received an hour prior… and then another only half-an-hour prior.

"The Legion, ma'am…" The Javelin Suit might have hid his face, but it didn't disguise the apprehension in his voice.

"…they're _gone_."

_Oh, Lady of Tarsis…_ Ryssa felt her heart lurch in her bosom at the thought, tears building hot in the underlids of her eyes at the thought of… _no, not _all_ of them…_ As a child, she had always loved the Legion of Dawn; they all had. While the many Guilds had their own trappings and banners to identify themselves, decorating themselves with boasts of glory and conquest by marking their Javelins with the number of their kills or adding some sort of memento upon their armor as if to award themselves, the Legion was different. That Guild, the most ancient and prestigious Order, the first and oldest of their kind in which Lancers and Sentinels were born from centuries before, did not make fools of themselves by adding the claws of a skorpion or some trophy of a Scar upon their armor. They did not drape themselves with a dozen fanciful imaginary titles while changing the coloring and patterns of their Javelin, adding decals and adornments to those handmade, handcrafted elegant machines with such frivolity.

No, one knew a Legionnaire on sight for a multitude of reasons; the completely chromed look of their Javelins that would gleam in the sun, the smart-looking uniforms that they wore when not piloting their Javelins, and the pure-white banner of their Guild only adorned with the symbol of General Helena Tarsis herself; that of the rising golden sun. They did not boast; they would tell you if asked. They did not jeer at other Lancers of their conquests and victories; the battle damage upon their Javelins and the blood of their enemies caked upon the greaves and gauntlets was testament enough. They did not swagger the streets, strutting about as if all should hold them in awe; the Order of the Legionnaires were generally unfailingly polite to the populous, acting like the true heroes people wanted them to be. There was a Code that a Legionnaire held themselves to, and the Order only accepted members who followed such a Code before acceptance. While it was true that they accepted the best of Lancers, they would also not accept a pilot if they had broken laws, had a large and outstanding debt, if they were known to start bar fights over slights, had an unsavory reputation, or treated the common populous in a contemptuous manner. They were the best because the people believed in them, and that belief fueled them forward. Heroes and legends had carried the Banner of the Legion forward, their names coming second to the Order. They did not fit themselves with a dozen fancy titles; they earned one and only one, and not upon acceptance or without witness. Legionnaires were expected to hold themselves to a better standard, and a member would be forced out if they didn't adhere to that standard. There were only a hundred Legionnaires at any given time, and their ranks only filled if they found suitable candidates, not with sub-standard personnel meant to fill in a slot. For over a millennium, the Legion stood as the epitome of duty and responsibility.

And they were all gone.

Brin closed her eyes to fight of the tears, hoping that those brave members had vanquished as many foes as they could before they fell.

"Thank you, Sentinel. Is that all?" The Lieutenant finally said, looking to her subordinate. She dismissed him when she realized he actually hadn't had a report; he hard heard the news, and like a rumormongerer, had spread the news like a magpie. While it could be possible that the news was inaccurate, Ryssa didn't think so. She couldn't see a Legionnaire retreating from battle, though that standard had existed when there had been a hundred members, not six.

Over sixty Lancers dead when there was barely a hundred. The Legion of Dawn… no more. Somehow, that last part was worse.

_[Lieutenant? I have something coming on the horizon to our west]_, came the voice of Sentinel Senior-Grade Maxwell Darvan, standing watch one the Western Watchtower for any threats to Fort Tarsis. As the Commander of the Watch, it was her duty to be informed of said threats and make determinations upon their existence and severity.

"What is it, Darvan?" Brin asked, knowing that there would be no Lancer who would go out to inquire upon a report; there were none in Tarsis, all the remaining active Lancers having answered the call of the Emperor to quell the threat of the Heart of Rage. In retrospect, that had been a poor decision, to leave themselves without a quick reaction force that was their primary investigative and response force. Sentinels pulled patrols around the surrounding countryside of Fort Tarsis, but usually only within a few kilometers of the walls of the city. Their Javelins were more geared towards defensive measures and long-term sustainability, not flight and quick-action. While many a Sentinel would said that they were the equal of any Lancer, Ryssa knew that not to be true. Sentinel Javelin Suits were created and tailored to a degree that spoke of holding the line and conducting an assault with numbers and logistics. They weren't the high-flying responders that the Lancers were, bringing Relic Technologies and innovations to a fight to meek out performance and devastation tailored to their own personal tastes. If there was a threat out in the wilds… they would have to wait for it to come to them to respond to it, engaging it with the city's heavy defenses and turrets. Going beyond Tarsis' blanket of security was a dangerous proposition for a Sentinel, their patrols generally numbering in the dozen. And they never left the envelop of the city's artillery save when on top of a Strider.

_[Gleam coming in… a… flyer]_, the man finally said, sounding not so sure. _[Hard to tell. Whoever or whatever it is, is either flying really badly, or can barely fly at all]_.

"I'll be there." Brin promised as she faced to the west where the Western Watchtower was located and engaged her boost-assisting jump jets to thrust herself up in the air an easy dozen meters with a leap that carried her both upward and forward to cover the distance much faster than if she had used her boosters to aid in her running to the location. Plus, while aloft, she might possibly see whatever had gotten Darvan's attention as she landed upon the parapit of the wall and leapt high once more, needing about four or so more jumps to reach the Watchtower. She saw the gleam on her last jump without the use of a scope or binoculars as the Lieutenant landed on the Watchtower next to Sentinel Senior-Grade Maxwell Darvan, manning the heavy-caliber machine gun turret with its auto-correcting stabilizer and electronic telescopic viewer for long-distance acquisition. Ryssa unholstered her Whirlwind Sniper Rifle and peered through its electronic scope to take a closer look at the distant gleam that appeared to be on approach. If it were a Lancer, they weren't in communication with the city's defenses, announcing their approach. She took a look with her scope, the crosshairs touching the gleam.

"It isn't a wyvren." The Lieutenant confirmed, seeing the flight trajectory of the approaching subject. Wyvrens were a pretty standard threat for any city, one of the few aerial creatures that boasted enough of a presence and threat to be a concern, and more so with numbers. The fact that they belched out fiery darts that could melt armor wasn't exactly endearing, either. A wyvrens' silhouette was pretty distinguishable, often soaring on thermal drafts of wind and their wings making them bob up and down slightly when gaining in altitude or speed. They generally looked like a large silhouette of a bird in the distance. This… wasn't doing it. She could see something reflecting in the distance, not the shading presence of a silhouette. It was also flying very erradically, sometimes dropping what appeared to be several to dozens of meters while trying to stay aloft. _Could it be a Javelin on approach?_ Brin wondered as she lowered her Whirlwind, looking on thoughtfully. _If they are, that has got to be the worst Javelin pilot I have ever seen. They can't even fly straight._

In a minute, the Lieutenant had her answer as the figure in the distance approached and attempted to make a landing on the walls of Fort Tarsis itself.

The flying object tried to gain altitude when it faltered and lost height, its presence jerking both to the right and the left as a boost got it just high enough to clear the crenlons of the wall. Unfortunately, a foot didn't clear the interior guardrail as the suit (and it was a Javelin suit) spun out of control, smoking and smoldering as it flipped end over end into the interior of the city, taking streamers and banners inside the city as its flight path ended in a diagonal trajectory that ended with a great crash to the ground as the suit bounced several times before slamming into the stone wall of a market building where it finally came to rest. Ryssa was already on the move when the Javelin past by her, leaping from the parapit and landing on the roof of a nearby building to see the Javelin meet the ground in a crash before skittering along the cobblestone streets of Fort Tarsis as she made her next leap to the ground itself, using her boosters to aid in her dash as the people of Tarsis watched in gaping amazement, a few picking themselves up after having to avoid being crashed into by the thousand pound suit. The Lieutenant reached the final resting place of the suit, seeing it lying there unresponsive as she arrived several seconds later, looking upon the charred figure of the Javelin as her eyes noted…

…Gods Above, was the pilot even still alive?

Ryssa Brin slowed her movement as she reached the crash site, the Javelin suit a tangled mess of fabric and steel from its uncontrolled descent. Smoke and heat emanated from the vehicle as one of the foot thrusters sputtered erratically, indicating that its flight control systems had been damaged. Actually, it looked like _everything_ had been damaged. There were heavy scores and scuffs along the blackened, charred steel plates of the Javelin, coated in grime, soot, dirt, and blood of several species. Many of the armor plates looked buckled, a few broken, and a couple torn or sheared off. Most of the left pauldron that represented the shoulder armor was literally ripped off, and the sight of a Rangers' assault missile launcher having been torn in half was an indication what happened to that fragment. The chestpiece was decorated in clawmarks, scores of damage, and a few piercing holes in its torso where something had defeated the armor and punctured the pilot inside. It was hard to tell what Guild the pilot hailed from thanks to the extensive damage and grime of battle; the armor was thick with dirt and mud coating its frame and joints, not to mention sooted and scorched with fire damage. The helm itself was a shattered wreck, the visor having taken such a blows as to have crumpled; Lady of Tarsis… that meant that the pilot had likely been flying _blind_ or at least severely compromised! The suit laid on its flank, unresponsive and unmoving as steam waifed from its boosters, sparks crackling from the starboard side thruster while Brin noticed the flight stabilizers along the greaves were bent and twisted. It was a wonder that the suit could have flown at all with that kind of damage.

"You, get me a physician and an engineer." The Sentinel commanded the first citizen she saw, a man her age nodding once before bolting off as Ryssa approached the still-smoldering wreck of the Javelin, taking a knee beside it to wipe some of the grime off of the crumpled visor, perhaps to let the pilot inside know someone was there.

Her hand wiped away the soot, the grime, the caked blood, and saw damaged metal… and the gleam of silver and chrome.

"Oh Gods…" Brin knew what she was looking at as her gauntleted hand went to wipe away another spot, this one over the heart. The sound of metal-on-metal came as she wiped off the layers of concealing dirt and damage to find the symbol of the rising golden sun upon the breast. The sight had her heart break.

"… it's a Legionnaire." There were gasps from the surrounding crowd of citizens who had watched the failed landing attempt and subsequent crash, gawking at the sight. The identity of a surviving Legionnaire in such a state was… heart-wrenching, but if anyone could be said to come back from the brink that had killed many others, most would have put a member of the Legion of Dawn as that candidate. "I need assistance!" Brin called out and looked to the crowd, seeing many shy away from the call as the Sentinel saw one of the members of her Order step forth, a Sentinel Guardsman holstering his assault rifle. "Flip him on his chest and help me extract the pilot. This could be the Titanslayer or the Farslayer." Ryssa could only hope it was either one of those two, the longest-serving members of the Legion, highly-decorated amongst those who were known for being highly-decorated. There had been six living Legionnaires that very morning, and one had literally landed at the Sentinel's feet; possibly the last. Brin held her breath as she got assistance from the Guardsman to flip the Javelin to lay on its front so as to access the emergency evacuation protocol in case a pilot were unconscious or worse inside their suit, in need of medical assistance but unable to extract themselves. The Lieutenant grimaced at the sight of the backpiece of the Ranger-Class Javelin Suit; one of the back thrusters had taken serious damage, likely just another reason the flight had been so erratic. It was a wonder the suit had flown at all, much less in the general direction it had achieve. That spoke of skill and an incredible amount of luck, especially if the pilot couldn't see through their visor. There was more of the same damage along the back of the vehicle; a host of claw marks, scrapes, scores, bent or broken armor fragments, puncture sites, and even melted steel from when something spewed acid or plasma upon the pilot. Gods… how by the Gods Below had the pilot survive _this_?

What had they been facing?

Ryssa and the Guardsman quickly activated the emergency evacuation protocol as the top half of the back piece unsealed itself with a tortured shriek of metal, the Lieutenant forced to lever it open when it only opened a few mere inches. There she could see the upper back, shoulders, and neck of the pilot wearing a pilots' suit inside, and Brin frowned at the sight; there was no denying it, but this was most certainly a woman, not the Titanslayer or the Farslayer, both men. The pilots' suit was saturated in sweat, grime, and blood as the Sentinels both extracted the pilot as gently as they could, never hearing a peep out of the woman as they first extracted her head before slipping her arms out from the suit, and finally the rest of her. A few elicited groans of pain and discomfort came from her, but Brin saw that the woman was unconscious; perhaps from the crash, perhaps holding tediously to consciousness during her flight. That the woman was injured was a certainty; blood streaked her charcoal gray pilot's and her visible flesh. One of her arms was swollen in the middle of the forearm, most certainly broken, and the sound of her labored breathing was an indication that she had either broken ribs, a punctured lung, or both. Ryssa laid the woman on the cobbled street as gently as she could as she looked at the face of the unconscious woman. She didn't know who this was.

The Sentinel was certainly struck by how _young_ she was, though. Twenty… at best. She had never heard of a Legionnaire so young! Yet the charcoal gray pilots' flight suit that she wore born the same rising golden sun just above the swell of her breast that her Javelin did; the flight suit of a Legionnaire. This woman hadn't magically boosted a Legionnaires' Javelin and taken off with it; Javelins had security measures and protocols that matched it with its user, and installing a new user from a previous owner took days if not weeks of connection tests, biometric data, testing, training, and user/suit meshing. One didn't just _jump_ into a strange suit and fly off with it; the internal operating system would never allow it, and attempting to hack into it would likely damage the programs inside and leave one with a thousand pound metal statue to look upon. No, this suit was the woman's, and she its pilot. Despite her surprising youth, this woman was of the Order of the Legion of Dawn.

As far as Brin was aware, she was also the last.

"Where is that physician?" The Lieutenant called out, looking out to the surrounding crowd, seeing the faces of worry and concern on all of them. To see a Legionnaire brought so low, to have gone through so much and to return with the possibility of her dying at their very feet? Ryssa was disappointed that none had made a move or attempt to help. Then again, they would likely get in the way and end up being more of a hindrance than a help, but the act of it was telling. Her attention returned to the figure of the young woman laying at her armored feet, groaning as her bloodied face moved slightly and her eyes fluttered pen to reveal two dark orbs, small islands of white admist the red blood and terrible gash that ran from hairline to jawline on the left side of her face, looking more than deep enough for sutures.

"W-where…?" The woman asked, her voice weak as her eyes locked onto Brin.

"You're safe in Fort Tarsis, Legionnaire. You made it; barely, but you're here now." The Sentinel said softly as she took on of the young woman's hands, holding it with her much larger armored gauntlet. "We're going to get you help." That promise Ryssa would easily keep. "Where are the other Legionnaires? The other Lancers? Did… did anyone else make it?" She hated herself for asking, but the Lieutenant knew she must. This was a survivor, and eyewitness to what had happened to _Operation: Stormbreaker_. There might have been survivors on the Striders not involved in the fighting, or Cyphers who hadn't succumb to the song of the Anthem, but this young woman had been boots-on-ground during the expedition, and by the indication of her bloody and battered body and Javelin, in the very thick of it. If there were answers to be had, then this woman was likely to be one of a very few who had any to give.

"I… think… someone from the Blood Dragon Guild, perhaps one of the Bhaalspawn. Two from the Wardens." The womans' eyes started to roll back in her head, but much to Brins' surprise, they snapped back to her armored visor, the young woman staving off unconsciousness. That took a feat of will. "Everyone else… fell." There was pain in those brown eyes, pain and _rage_. "Jansen, Adam, Victor, Sonya…

"…my father."

_Gods, I know who this_ is, Lieutenant Ryssa Brin realized as the young woman slipped into unconsciousness, her eyes lolling back as her head came to rest upon the cobbled street, still breathing. She had used the names of _four_ of the six members of the Legion of Dawn that she knew of; all names that Brin knew, that _everyone_ knew. The Soulcleaver, the Wrath of Light, the Farslayer, Foehammer…

…and the last… the last had been the Titanslayer.

Brin remembered the first time she had met Legionnaire Paulo Valencia, the Grandmaster of the Order. It had been… six, seven years ago? There had been a plague of Scar incursions, more than what the several Lancers in Tarsis could normally handle, and the Legion had come to quell the threat. The Titanslayer had been every inch what Ryssa had thought of a Legionnaire; a hero personified, a paragon of honor and lethality. A giant of a man with a quiet voice and somber disposition, the five Legionnaires had come from Antium to silence the threat to Fort Tarsis on the back of an intercontinental Strider transporting their Javelins, their gear, and themselves. Brin remembered there being a girl on the cusp of young womanhood amongst the Legionnaires, never far away from the man that was easily twice her height and three times her width, the one she called 'Poppa'. No matter that they didn't look alike; the Titanslayer wouldn't be the first Lancer to adopt a child rescued from the wilds and raised as his own. No, the only judge to that had been a young girl who had seen in the man a father, and that was that.

"Yanya. Yanya Valencia" Ryssa recalled, remembering a girl with dark hair, dark eyes, and dusky skin. It was hard to believe that this was the same person; six years was a long time for a child, and the person in question had survived a bloody disaster. It certainly explained how one so young became a Legionnaire; likely her father had been grooming her for years. Father and daughter serving together, fighting together. _Strong Alone, Stronger Together_ was the unofficial motto of the Lancer, and the Sentinel wondered how they paired off together. No doubt a time of pride for both of them; for the daughter who likely saw her father for the hero he was and being able to serve at is side, and the father to see his child coming into her own on her own accord.

And now the father was gone, the daughter looking to be right on his very footsteps.

"Where… is that _physician!_"

Ryssa would be damned if she let a Legionnaire die at her very feet.

Especially the very last one.

* * *

Author's Notes: The is the first time I've created a story in a franchise so new (literally the Public Release Day of _Anthem_, 2/22, saw the idea forming up). Having said that, a good deal of canon will be… suggested if not followed, and other things missed or having to make do without. Bastion is the name of the _continent_ that Fort Tarsis resides on, but the planets' name is _Mirrus_. For a date, I came up with something cute for the month, and I remember seeing _somewhere_ that the year was recorded as LV (Legion's Victory, so I assume when the Legion of Dawn defeated the urgoths (or whatever the threat was that I missed out on initially in the Codex/Cortex). I finally found the Cortex entry that put the physical year of the Assault of the Heart of Rage as 466 L.V. under the Shaper category in the file The Cenotaph.

In canon/Cortex, the Legion of Dawn fractured itself into three philosophies, subsequently turning into the Sentinels, the Freelancers, and the Dominion. Like all political entities, they have their own views, and I will work with that like we see in politics today.

Instead of calling everyone 'Freelancer', it is simply 'Lancer'; both job title and job description, much like Lancer Yarrow and Lancer Rythe. Members of the Legion of Dawn, on the other hand, are known as 'Legionnaires'.

I guess the missing two years in _Anthem_ were better than the missing three years in _Dragon Age 2_, where absolutely nothing changes.

For some Guild names, I went with BioWare history; the Blood Dragon Guild is based off the of the Blood Dragon Armor from _Dragon Age: Origins_, and the Bhaalspawn Guild is based off the infernal-lineage children like Imoen from _Baldur's Gate_. What will be the Black Wardens, based off the Grey Wardens of the Dragon Age Series, you will see later. But there were two survivors.


	2. The Siren's Call Shall Wake The Dead, II

_For cool decals, please purchase Shards. Which cost you _actual_ money. What… I didn't pay enough for graphics?_

_BioWare is responsible for yet another franchise: Anthem. _

**The Public Plaza, Fort Tarsis, Northern Bastion, Mirrus, Summerset 22, 1183 LV**

Cypher Owen Corley heard the news, heard the name, and bolted as if he had a wyvren at his back.

He had only seen her a few times over the years since he had gone to the Academy of the Mind and she Flight School. Who'd had thought that a pair of orphans and survivors such as themselves would have ever become friends like they were, but there you go! Yanya Valencia was a friend to him when she didn't have to be, looking out for him when no one asked. He had been a scamp and a spot of trouble on her behalf, and yet she wasn't dissuaded. To think that the first time he met her was to pick the pocket of the easiest mark he could find, seeing a girl his age in a uniform that wasn't quite like the Sentinels, but something resembling their Order. He figured, being a boy, he could outrun a girl naturally as his hand slipped for her Shard bag, cutting the tethering string that kept it attached to her and was off like the wind.

What he hadn't expected was a scamp like himself to be chased halfway through the bloody city by a girl who was by no means an easy mark.

It had taken her half of an hour to finally get to him when a scaffolding he had been on decided to give way when he put his weight on it, young Owen thinking himself falling to his death three stories below before he realized that he had been dangling over the ledge, a hand around his wrist, and a pair of dark eyes looking into his own. She had hauled him up back onto the rooftop, the both of them panting and exhausted when she began to laugh, a real one. She could have beaten him up but she didn't. She could have called the Sentinels but she didn't. When Owen handed her her Shard bag back, giving her back her money in return for rescuing him, she had told him her name.

And then offered to buy him food; what he had been stealing for.

For months it was like that with Yanya. A ten year old girl under the auspice of a Legionnaire, she looked out for him and took care of him when Owen didn't have anyone else. He didn't know that the headaches and the dreams were really something else, his telepathy emerging. All he knew was that sometimes he would be lying shivering on the ground, sweating and crying as too many voices bombarded him, voices of secrets and thoughts that people kept to themselves, all laid bare to him. The first time that happened to him in front of his friend, she did the only thing she could; she rested his aching head on her lap and soothed him through his episode, singing some song in a different tongue to him as he whimpered and cried, exposed and vulnerable. Never had she took advantage of him, and not once did she admonish him. Owen didn't know why before that day, why this daughter of a Legionnaire would take such pity on him, to give him money for food, to give him clothes, to be his friend. But on that day as she held him and comfort him, he heard her without her saying a word, the thoughts in her head. It was then he knew that she was no different than he; an orphan, a survivor, one who had been brought so low.

_The brother I couldn't save_, her thoughts had said, and Owen could almost see it, a boy a shade younger than he with the same tanned skin, dark, hair, and dark eyes that Yanya had. There was a song of sorrow to that thought, a song that wanted to make Owen cry.

_The brother I can_, and he knew, he knew right then and there why Yanya Valencia had done all those things for him. She had lost like he had, and in her broken heart, she had found a way to heal herself by helping someone else heal. He could hear in her thoughts the roar of combat and pain, the cries of a young girl and the sounds of the wilds, the broken machinery of a Strider and the long, cold nights spent outside. On that day Owen Corley learned more of his friend than he had ever known, the dark past she held deep inside. She held him in his time of need, and he returned the favor. He apologized for accidentally hearing her thoughts, not knowing how to stop it, but he knew the truth.

_Save this one life_, that song of sorrow keened inside of her, that tortured flute of pain that forever lived within her heart. _Make it worth something, give back what was taken_.

It was her father, Legionnaire Paulo Valencia, Grandmaster of the Order of the Legion of Dawn that they had eventually went to about Owen's condition. Owen didn't know why he could hear thoughts, the street urchin being overlooked by the Empires' education system into identifying possible sensitives. It was Legionnaire Valencia that told him of what he was; his gift, his potential, what he could do with it. In a day, he was giving purpose and a chance to make something of himself, to go from the starving, begging child that he was to going to a school where he would be surrounded by others just like him, taught and trained (as well as fed, clothed, given a place to sleep, and seen to!). He remembered Yanya's face when he learned of what he could become; a Cypher, a telepathic communicator who looked out for the people of Bastion, a warrior of the mind. The young girl who had brought him into her heart to replace the brother torn from it had been so _proud_ of him, to see him have the chance to rise above all that he had suffered, to give himself worth and purpose.

Owen had never told her that he had done it for her, the woman he owed it all to. Some words just weren't sufficient enough, and there were times he wished she could hear him truly.

The boy had turned into a young man with his years of training at the Academy of the Mind, where Arcanists and Cyphers were educated and trained to explore the sciences and technologies of the world, to aid in the fight that would ultimately help save mankind. The Academy was unfortunately at Antium, and that meant being away from Yanya, whose father was stationed at Heliost due to its location on the continent to best strike out where needed for the few remaining members of the Legion of Dawn. The young girl had promised that she would write to him… and kept it. She wrote twice a month and sent it on a Strider, and Owen found himself reading about the girl who was his sister as she grew up a Legionnaire's daughter while he was trained to help control his powers 'lest it drive him mad. He found himself looking forward to Post, and he returned the favor, too, telling her of the Academy. Well, the good bits, at least. There were its trials and troubles, but he wasn't going to worry her about things that he could overcome or deal with. After years on the streets, the complications of the Academy were laughable, really. He was fed three times a day, had a real bed that was his, clean clothes, and didn't have to pick bugs out of his hair. It was practically a paradise with a few eye-rolling moments; he'd survive. There were times that Legionnaire Valencia was needed in Antium, normally at the beck-and-call of the Emperor, and whenever he went, Yanya came. On those visits, the young woman found him easily enough, sometimes Owen sneaking out to spend time with her. While those visits were few and far between, he had cherished each and every one of them.

Then came the day she visited him and told him that she was beginning her training to be a Javelin pilot. They were fourteen years old, Yanya growing from young girl to young woman as he was going from young boy to young man. Owen knew this to be her dream; he didn't need to hear her thoughts to know that. It was _his_ turn to tell her how proud he was of her, to give her worth and purpose. He didn't need to be told that the training and ordeals were difficult or punishing; those he knew. Yanya wouldn't be dissuaded, and he wasn't going to try. Like himself, she had something to prove, something to show for the dark times that she had endured, to make it worth something. She would be a guardian of the sky, the lance of the clouds, the stalwart defender who took to battle for mankind. He knew this without her ever having to say so, and the only reason he wished to be a Cypher was to be _her _Cypher, to look out after her as she had for him. Every trial and tribulation had been done to reach that goal, to look out for the girl that called him _brother_ by choice.

He only saw her once in five years, the letter still coming if sporadically, sometimes once a month. Owen knew that Flight School was a punishing ordeal that put a pilot through their paces; physically, mentally, and emotionally. Fear was driven from their minds and their souls, those who couldn't beat it drummed out. Their bodies were put to their paces as they trained in athletic competitions geared to teach them how to fight, how to shoot, how to hone their instincts and senses to become a warrior. It would be several years before Yanya would grace a Javelin save a training one, and yet she would do it, as Owen knew she would. One day, she would earn the right to be called a Lancer, and he would go to her on that day and ask to be her Cypher.

Owen had graduated from the Academy of the Mind just the month prior, and was surprised to see that two people had arrived to congratulate him; Legionnaires, at that. The sight of Legionnaire Paulo Valencia had been a surprising one, and yet it was a welcoming one as that beast of a man shook his hand and congratulated him, Owen knowing that it was on his recommendation that the young man would enter the Academy at such an 'old' age of ten. Yet the sight of a young woman the same age as he standing next to him in a Legionnaire's uniform, that mantel that was recognizable anywhere? To see _her_ wearing it? Owen couldn't help but hug her, to congratulate her. Not only was she a Lancer, but a Legionnaire; one of those proud illustrious few who were the epitome of Lancers, a position coveted by many. Oh, he knew without being told that her father had likely groomed her for the chance, yet even his vote was but one; it had to be unanimous amongst the Legion to accept a member, pouring over training, actions, deeds, and words. The Legion didn't accept those who bullied or pushed their way through life, who trampled upon the downtrodden or looked down upon the common man. Lancers held themselves as heroes, but the Legion really were heroes, an Order of honor and duty mixed with rules and expectations. Seeing her in that uniform? Owen knew that his sister had succeeded at her dreams; not to just be a Lancer, but to be at her fathers' side in battle, too.

Unfortunately, getting to be her Cypher had a bit of a wrinkle to it.

Owen had heard the rumors; there was a great expedition having been called by the Emperor Himself. Lancers from all over Bastion had made their way to Antium to gather their forces to prepare a strike against a rapidly growing cataclysm near where Freemark once stood known as the Heart of Rage. Dozens of Lancers from a dozen Guilds had arrived to the Imperial Capital to be a part of the operation, Lancers clogging the streets with their Javelin suits and their own mortal presences. Owen knew that he, as a beginning Cypher, would not be a part of the operation, and despite it all, it made sense. Dozens of Cyphers from around the continent were being called as well, along with engineers, Arcanists, Strider crews and pilots… the works. There hadn't been such a planned gathering in almost two centuries, and everyone was banding together in a strike that would be remembered for ages. Owens got his orders for Fort Tarsis, and a week before _Operation: Stormbreaker_ began, he was sitting in a Strider going to the old fort while Yanya prepared herself for her part in the expedition as the Legion of Dawn's newest member.

He got to go to that celebratory party, at least, Owen and Yanya heroically trying to outdrink the other while the adults watched on, amused.

Fort Tarsis was everything he expected it to be; which wasn't much. It had been a grand city once, but decades and centuries of attacks and losses had the Fort slowly slipping into a dilapidated state as trade was impacted by the loss of Freemark. Antium and Heliost were relatively close, but it had been Freemark that connected Tarsis to Heliost, giving respite to the long and dangerous journey. With the loss of that important hub, the Fort had fallen on hard times, the weight of the Empire slowly softening as the population slowly trickled away. Commerce slowly dried up to, and what was once a city of thousands and thousands was a ghost of its former glory. Owen wasn't thrilled at the thought of being stationed on the arse end of the Empire, looking forward to relaying correspondences between the government posts and the Sentinel Order, a normal Cypher's job. He hadn't worked himself harder than everyone else to become some glorified post clerk, and he seethed at the job. He knew, he knew he knew he _knew_ that Yanya would come for him once _Operation: Stormbreaker_ was complete, to have him train and chosen to be a Legionnaires' Cypher; a coveted position in itself. So he would bide his time and gnash his teeth at the boring tedium to get to the part he really wanted; to be _her_ Cypher. He knew the day would come.

But Gods Above and Below… not like this.

She laid on a recovery bed, her tortured body laying on dried bloody sheets, physicians having stitched her wounds and set her bones, splinting her limbs and wrapping her ribs. The sight of it broke Owen's heart, and it was more than enough to move him into tears. This brave young woman who had saved his life in many more ways than one so damaged? It was almost too much to bear. Yet he would, for her. She had lost _almost_ everything and everyone.

She hadn't lost him. She would know that.

"You get your rest, Yanya." Owen took her one good hand into both of his own as he sat by her bedside, her injured body covered in a sweat-soaked sheet, disguising the bandages, sutures, and splints that decorated her body. "I'll take care of everything else for you, you just worry about taking care of yourself.

"Because that's what Cyphers do. That's what _brothers_ do."

Owen leaned forward and kissed her forehead, wishing he could communicate to her what he really thought and felt, how brokenhearted he was to see her in such a state, and utterly grateful that she had come back alive. He knew that when she awoke, she would be an utter disaster of emotions, and he would bear it for her. She had lost her father, the Legion now gone. She was the last of her kind.

And he would make sure that she wouldn't go quietly. Or anytime soon.

Of course, the first thing he did before leaving her room was to pick her pockets. It was just tradition, now.

Owen Corley walked through the Fort Tarsis Bazaar, seeing the wooden stalls of the merchants as they hawked their wares from a dozen smaller settlements as well as the great cities, handmade and handcrafted items that the people might want or need for whatever purpose. There was a food stall of a hunter selling fresh meat (or what he called fresh meat) while right next to him was a woman selling silk scarves spun from spiders. The young Cypher was a little disappointed in the sight of so many stall spots empty of merchant and goods, only about half of the Bazaar occupied with hawkers, and even then their carts and stalls only half-filled. It was nothing like the bazaars of Heliost or Antium, though Owen had heard that the bazaars of Freemark had been the most numerous. He had herd a few old-timers grouse on the lack of banners and shading streamers of fabric that would offer respite from the hot Summerset sun, the color and life drained from their city. For him, it was almost strange to walk down the streets and _not_ bump into half-a-dozen people and offer apologies (the old habit of checking for pockets still lingering in his fingers), a few people going to shop for daily needs or that special something. He could easily work his way through the Bazaar in a straight line without having to tour around a congregation of bargainers dickering over prices of items in Coin or Shard, whatever currency was provided and accepted, or a few bartering for goods the other wanted. The bazaar was sadly a quiet affair as less than a dozen stalls stood sentinel in its walled embraced, tired-eyed merchants only giving off pitiful calls of goods available as the young man sauntered past without a look.

He didn't need a merchant, he needed an engineer. Thankfully, he happened to know a good one.

Zoe McGrady.

"Zo!" Owen called out as he went to the Forge, where Javelins of both Sentinels and Lancers were crafted and maintained by engineers, maintenance personnel, and their own pilots. The Forge was a host of gyroscopic platforms that could rotate with a pair of hydraulic suspension manipulators for more delicate work on more dangerous components such as the fuel cells or Relic-infused armor plating if one could afford it. Zoe wasn't the best because she possessed some latent talent or amazing capacity. Oh no. No, Zoe was the best because she got the work done in the time she said it would get done. She was a woman of her word, a professional mechanic and engineer who wasn't afraid to get her hands greasy cleaning out the servos and actuators of a Javelin, replacing faulty components with her bare hands, and having a sharp eye for flaws or cracks. One didn't need to be a miracle worker to be great at one did. But she really was a miracle worker. She said she would have suit repaired and functional in four hours? It would be ready in three hours, fifty-nine minutes, and enough time to reach for one's Shard bag to pay for her services.

"Owen! Fancy meeting you here, broadcaster." The almond-skinned woman said with a smile as a greasy hand brushed back a curl of hair that had draped itself over her face, putting a streak of soot on her forehead. Her dungerees were appropriately filthy with grease, paint, soot, and dirt; the sign of an engineer that got up-close and personal in their jobs. Hadn't Paulo once said _never trust a clean engineer_ or some such thing? It made sense, really. If one said their were a mechanic and had clean fingernails, without grime embedded into the patterns and whorls in the skin? Chances were they were a liar or a bad mechanic. Of course, that addage had come with the tradition _don't trust a skinny cook_ as well, and yes… that made sense, too. All the cooks in the Academy had been portly from sampling the soups, broths, roasts, and meals they made for the students, and Owen couldn't really recall one having come down with something from something they ate. A good sign. "What brings a jockey like yourself down to the pits with my type?"

"I want to hire you." Owen blurted out, not really knowing any protocols or whatnots, never actually having to deal with a mechanic or engineer before, in which Zoe was both. He had met her in the Plaza while taking her son to the fountain on his first day in Fort Tarsis, forced to ask for directions (not very manly, that). Thankfully, Zoe was a good-natured woman who was quite easy on the eyes and a good head on her shoulders. Striking up a conversation with the woman had him learning the ins-and-outs of Tarsis in a couple of hours, and in that time he made a friend. "I… don't know how to do this properly. But I have a suit that is in need of repair."

"Odd. Wait…" Zoe looked at him for a moment, and then to the one Javelin suit that stood to one corner of the Forge, the workshop having several orders for the Sentinel Order… but not one for a Lancer. None of the platforms held the Javelin of a Lancer pilot; not for repair, maintenance, calibrations… storage… upkeep… upgrades…

Gods Above, they really were all gone, weren't they?

"Yes, that one." Owen hadn't seen the extent of the damages done to the _Ranger_-Class Javelin of Dawn Mk. XXVII, having only seen it once when it came off the assembly line. It had been started by Legion engineers in Antium several months before Yanya Valencia had graduated, configured towards the young womans' capability and style of fighting. She had never graced a Lancer's Javelin suit, instead piloting a rarity that was a masterwork of design, a feat of engineering, using rare and expensive components and dangerous Relic energies to craft a vehicle that would bring hope to the populous and death to those that threatened them. To see it in such a damaged state was a blow; Gods, Yanya had survived… _that_? It was almost impossible to believe, yet he had heard it from Sentinel Lieutenant Ryssa Brin herself (admittedly, she had been talking to someone else) how the Legionnaire had come in hot, the suit barely able to fly, crashing into the tarmac and skidding across the cobblestone streets until it struck a building. It was easy to tell that whatever fight had happened had been absolutely hellacious, and it was a wonder that Yanya had not only survived the fight, but the flight from wherever the Heart of Rage was. Since it existed near the ruins of Freemark… that was a two-hundred and sixty kilometers away; much further than even a Legionnaires' Javelin could fly in one go. She had gone for the nearest city, wounded, possibly dying, inside her failing suit. He saw the burnt metal, the scored steel, the melted pieces, parts sheered or torn off, the punctures where weapons or claws had pierced that toughened exterior to reach the fragility of the pilot inside. If that had been what Yanya had been dealt, it was no wonder the other Lancers had lost, calling for a retreat but unable to do so. Gods Above… it must have been a slaughter.

"Owen, that's a _Legion_-made Javelin suit." Zoe told him as if he didn't know.

"I have…" He took Yanya's Shard bag and opened it up to inspect its contents, frowning for a moment, "forty…eight thousand coins and about… eight hundred Shards or so." A Shard was worth about seventy coin, so there was about over a hundred thousand coins worth of repairs he could have done on the Javelin. That should get it up to operational level, though he actually had no idea how much repairs cost.

"Owen… you're not understanding." Zoe said as she shook her head. "It isn't about the money. I _can't_ repair it. This Forge?" She swept a dirty hand over the maintenance bay and workshop were a dozen mechanics worked on some of the Sentinel Javelin suits. "This forge is good for Sentinels and _common_ Lancer Javelin suits, often engineered by people such as myself with materials and components provided. What you need… it just isn't here.

"What you need is a Starforge. Which is in Antium."

"Okay." Well, that wasn't the worst news in the world, was it? Striders were coming and going to the capital, so all he needed to to was charter the suits' return to the Imperial City to get the Mk. XXVII back to where it would be properly repaired. "How much would that cost?"

"Owen, they _cancelled_ Strider services to the capital and Heliost with the news of the loss of the Lancers." The engineer told him. That had the Cypher feel… shocked. Fort Tarsis… was on its' own? "The Sentinel Order in Antium and Heliost deemed it too dangerous to have Striders traverse the five hundred kilometers from here to Heliost. Yours was the first to make it in almost a month, and of the last ten monthly services, we lost four. With no more Lancers and the Sentinels not providing…" What she didn't say was clear.

They were stuck here. They all were.

"Okay, what can _we_ do with it?" The Cypher asked, his mind spinning. He wasn't trained or knowledge of these things, but just getting the Javelin in operational order was a start.

"Honestly… it would be better for salvage." Owen was about to protest but Zoe held up a hand. "It is damaged quite extensively, and I haven't even run a proper diagnostic on it. Our machines aren't at the level to operate with the materials needed to craft that suit, which we lack the materials as well. What you're asking me to do is slap some components from some _other_ Javelin suit that is damaged too much to be repaired upon a work of art and call it good. That would be like taking your arm off and replacing it with that of a crippled old man with swollen knuckles and the shakes."

"Can you do the opposite? Take the components of the Mk. XXVII and augment another Javelin suit?" Owen asked. "Make… a normal suit more powerful instead of a powerful suit lesser?"

"Some parts, yes. But mostly just the armor." The engineer was shaking her head again. "Honestly, as I understand it, a great deal of the power and force of a Javelin of Dawn is in the schematics and power distribution system, as well as the inclusion of specific Relic Technology and tightly-harnessed Shaper energies. I can't do any of those things here, kid. I can't pull out vital internal components and staple them onto another suit and expect it to work even half as well. I do something like that… it might explode upon launch. Or fall out of the sky. Or overpower a weapon system and blow off a limb. We don't have the knowledge, the know-how, the machines, the components, the schematics, the blueprints… any of that. The best I can do is clean it, buff out some of the surface damages, take a look at some of the other issues and decide whether or not it's feasible. It… it would be smarter to just build an entirely new suit from scratch. I'm capable of that, and it's cheaper, too."

Owen certainly hadn't been expecting that.

"How… much does a new suit cost? That… hypothetical built-from-scratch one?" He really wished he knew what he was talking about, or knew what he was doing. Or had an idea on what the right idea would be.

"To give you an idea, see that Ranger-Class Sentinel Javelin over there?" Zoe pointed out the one in question, the eight-foot tall robotic suit standing on its platform, clean and ready-to-go. "That one was built last year for Commander Marcus Vule, and it's the best one we got. That cost a thousand Shards in materials, another two hundred in design, and five hundred in labor." The Cypher felt his heart slowly drop as his belly did a nice lazy flip-flop. Seventeen hundred Shards… a hundred and twenty _thousand_ coins. "Now, that one over there?" Several platforms over was another Ranger-Class Sentinel Javelin that certainly looked… less impressive than the one belonging to the Sentinel Commander of Fort Tarsis. "That one belongs to a wet-behind-his-ears Sentinel. It's a ten-year old model that's been overhauled no less than four times, has three dozen replacements for parts and armor due to patrols and wear-and-tear, and is the no-frills, no bells-and-whistles model, as basic as one can get. _That_ one would run you about a hundred and twenty Shards considering its already been manufactured and actually runs. If you bought something like that and paid to have the necessary flight components installed so it could take to the skies would cost…" Zoe's eyes went shrewd for a moment, "…approximately another two hundred Shards for components and labor. Actually… I think I have a couple of busted Lancer Javelins as well as some Sentinel Javelins that aren't in use. Lancers forced to sell their suits to cover debts, some who quit or retired and sold them for retirement money, salvaged from the wilds, a few Sentinels who retired or moved and their suits remained, that kind of thing. There's about eight that are sitting around, taking space and gathering dust. For the most part they just sit there, but sooner or later they'll be bought up or used for parts. You buy one of those as-is? A hundred Shards, and likely you'll be doing both yourself and I a favor getting them out of some dusty corner and back into action. They'll need some tender loving care, probably a bit of an overhaul, but you can have someone outside of the wall in less than a week without burning through all your money."

Owen found himself thinking it over for all of ten seconds… and had an idea. Years of letters from Yanya telling him about Flight School had him knowing more than most about what aspiring Lancers were taught and trained in. Flight, fighting, marksmanship… and maintenance. The idea formed in his head, and the more he thought about it, the more he thought it would work.

Hopefully, Yanya wouldn't kill him.

"A hundred Shards, you said?" The Cypher asked, getting a nod from the engineer. He opened up the Shard bag and grabbed what he needed… and deposited eight hundred Shards into the woman's hand.

"I'll take them. As is." Owen Corley told the engineer as the Shards were put into her outstretched hand.

"All eight."

Author's Note: Commander Vule's first name _isn't_ Marcus; I think it's Leonard or something (or perhaps Nathanial). It's mentioned _once_ when Vule and someone else get friendly and he casually mentions a first name while in conversation with him (meaning his own) and I wasn't expecting it and don't remember it. It's not on the wikia, along with the lack of his voice actor (in which he sounds incredibly like Christopher Judge, who you might know of from _The Orville)_. I looked up the voice actor on IMDB, and Vule's voice is Peter Macon. Actually, the usual suspects of voice acting weren't there in Anthem, the big ones and the 'everybody' ones missing. I'd have a hard time guessing who any of them were without looking them up.

If you're feeling spunky, you can by useless armor piece for your Javelin! And it costs _real_ money! Shards are the in-game currency that one can buy if one doesn't wish to earn coin via the Alliance System (and a fair bit of time), and the ratio of Shard-to-Coin was based off the price of some of the items on the featured lists where you could dump tens of thousands of coins for suit modifications (or emotes, if feeling snazy) or hundreds of Shards. It seems that one Shard equals about seventy Coin, so I'm running with both currencies and that equivalency rate. I'll explain later why they're two sets of currency (which, if most people don't know, damn near everyone does with _paper_ and _coin_).

I will tease you later with Yanya's awesomesuit, which will be down for a while. What? That's how RPG's work! Here's awesome… gets destroyed… learn how to look around a room and here's your shiny basic rifle/sword.


	3. The Siren Call Shall Wake The Dead, III

_What I really wanted was to fly around in the Stark Industries' Mk. VII Iron Man Suit._

_BioWare is responsible for yet another franchise: Anthem. _

**The Clinic, Fort Tarsis, Northern Bastion, Mirrus, Summerset 24, 466 LV**

"_Good morning, Imperial Citizens of the Bastion Empire. This is Sarah Schashner with Tarsis News Today, connecting one and all throughout the Empire._

"_Reports are coming in about the epic disaster that was _Operation: Stormbreaker_, where dozens and dozens of Lancers were brought in to strike out at the Heart of Rage; a cataclysm that was created by the Dominion during the fall of Freemark eight years prior. It has become the largest known cataclysm to date, and seventy Lancer pilots as well as a hundred associated support personnel were joined together to silence the Heart of Rage that has, in recent months, been spitting out titans on nearly a daily basis while turning more and more of the countryside into a twisted ash wasteland, reshaping everything within its wake. Arcanist predictions indicate that its growth could lead to major disruptions to travel and trade in the next couple of years, as well as the heavy influx of creatures either coming out of the cataclysm, or altered by it. _

"_The last members of the Legion of Dawn made the call, and many responded, being led by the last five members of that Order. Nearly a month of work, logistics, preparations, and training were conducted as Striders and supplies were sent in support of _Operation: Stormbreaker_. Cyphers, Arcanists, Strider pilots, members of the Order of Corvus and members of the Sentinel Order were included amongst the numbers that were used in the operation, Legionnaire Paulo Valencia, the Grandmaster of the Legion saying, 'we're going to utilize as much and as many as possible to ensure the best possible chance of success'. Unfortunately, yesterday's operation was met with disaster as Striders failed to met the target location where personnel from Antium and Heliost were to meet due to the effects of the Heart of Rage, suffering damages and losses several kilometers apart from their planned meeting point. The Titanslayer ordered for the included Lancers to launch when the meeting proved to be unsuccessful, turning what was suppose to be one concentrated effort to lance deep into the Heart of Rage into several smaller pushes in which Lancer forces were quickly overwhelmed by numbers that superseded previous estimations. _

"_What was a planned method of attack turned into a bloody disaster, sources say._

"_What little we know is that of the seventy-one Lancer pilots that went into the Heart of Rage, only six are known to have come back. This disaster is also marked with the total loss of five Striders, two dozen Cyphers glitched by the Song of the Anthem, and injuries throughout those who supported the Lancers. Our Imperial Majesty, Emperor Valus Dell, has expressed his extreme displeasure at the results, saying that 'the whole affair had smacked of a glory hunt from the very start'. _Operation: Stormbreaker_ had originally enjoyed His Imperial Majesty's support and approval, even to the very day of the launch three days prior. The Emperor is now calling for the end of the Path of Glory, with so few Lancers left throughout the Empire. _

"_We have been getting reports this morning of Sentinels moving in to seize Guild Forges in both Antium and Heliost in the Name of the Emperor, to use in the increased need of Sentinel maintenance and upkeep now that our defenders of the wilds have taken such a grievous blow. Sentinel Grandmaster Harbus Vaughn was quoted to saying that 'Lancers lacked the discipline and means to make an effective effort', perhaps forgetting how many times Lancers had done just that. There have been calls amongst the populous concerning how, apparently, the Sentinels who had joined the operation had never left the Striders in the Lancers' time of need, ignoring calls for reinforcements or removal from the field due to suit malfunction or injury. Of the two dozen of the Path of Valor that had went, not one had hit the field; half of the number that had been planned to have showing up, and none of them heading out as had been expected. When asked about this during this mornings' public conference about the events that transpired, the Grandmaster replied that the Sentinels were ill-equipped with dealing with such threats, and the plan would have made them cannon fodder. A strange thing to say, since in his next statement, Grandmaster Vaughn replied that the Sentinel Order would handle any and all threats against Imperial citizenry as they arise. Considering that one of them is, in fact, the Heart of Rage, growing daily, one must wonder if the Sentinels plan to use Guild Forges, schematics, and supplies to alter their Javelins to face such threats. _

"_Questions and accusations of theft from the Guilds and Lancers who had bravely lost their lives attempting to stop the enormous cataclysm were met with stony silence, and there was no acknowledgment of their contributions or bravery as Sentinels and support staff stripped Guild holdings bare of their belongings, their owners perished fighting the greatest threat recorded while those who swore to defend us from the very same threats never left their walls take relevant supplies, components, machinery, and equipment while tossing personal mementos and keepsakes upon the ground to be trampled on. The long-simmering feud between Sentinel and Lancer was finally settled today as members of the Path of Valor robbed from the dead without compunction, calling their Path of Glory brethren 'reckless, undisciplined, and unreliable'. Perhaps they should be reminded that the Lancers gave their lives to stop a threat that threatens us all while the Sentinels on the operation never left the Striders like they were suppose to, not one of them lost or injured while Lancers fought nearly to the very last. Perhaps this was made even worse when Sentinels aboard the very same Striders called for a retreat halfway during the operation, turning those Striders around and heading back to their respective ports while Lancers fought, outnumbered five hundred-to-one by most accounts. _

"_Reports indicate that, with the heavy losses of Lancers, the legendary Legion of Dawn suffered a _near_ total loss having made it to the epicenter of the Heart of Rage with a dozen other stalwart Lancers, striking into the very heart of the cataclysm that was their objective. While reports and observations from the surviving members aboard the Striders are conflicted, most agree that despite the failure to silence the Heart of Rage, six Lancers were seen having left the maelstrom, generally under heavy attack and greatly injured. Of those six, only four managed to make it on board Striders that were already in retreat to find Lancer pilots and Javelin suits heavily injured. One Strider pilot has confirmed that he saw what appeared to be a singular Legionnaire suit taking flight from the cataclysm, though various Cyphers and mission specialists have confirm the loss of _five_ members of the Legion. Grandmaster Vaughn reiterated this morning after being question of the Guild seizures that _allfive_ members of the Legion of Dawn had been killed in battle, and insisted upon this fact despite several pieces of evidence that, two week prior to _Operation: Stormbreaker_, the Legion had inducted a _sixth_ member whose name can be found on a list of personnel upon the muster. While communications with the various Lancers during the operation was chaotic and sporadic due to cataclysm and battle, it was confirmed that both the Farslayer and the Titanslayer lost their lives near the very end, perhaps the last casualties of the operation. It has been also heavily suggested that the Soulcleaver, the Wrath of Light, and the Foehammer had also fallen amongst their brothers and sister, fighting against vastly superior odds while at the very heart of the storm that only eighteen had made it to._

"_Citizens, I am here to report that not all of the Legion are dead._

"_Near evening two days ago, a grievously damaged Javelin came to Fort Tarsis, crashing into the Plaza instead of landing, both suit and pilot near death. There were dozens of eyewitnesses that saw the same thing and share the same tale; the suit bore the marks of the Legion of Dawn, and was piloted by a _young _woman who was not Legionnaire Sarah Corbin. Combining eyewitness testimony and muster lists of the operation, the conclusion is that the identity of the woman is Legionnaire Yanya Valencia, the adopted daughter of the Titanslayer, Grandmaster Legionnaire Paulo Valencia. A recent honor graduate of Flight School, Legionnaire Yanya Valencia is known to be a survivor of the destruction of Freemark and rescued at some point in time by the Titanslayer before then, her parents dead during a deadly Scars attack that brought down a transportation Strider that left young Yanya not only an orphan, but surviving the wilds on her own for most of a year with no weapons, training, skills, or relief. This comes contradictory to what the Sentinel Grandmaster claims of _all_ of the Legion having perished, using the number _five_ instead of _six_, despite the fact that there are a few editorials from affiliates in Antium that reported the induction of one Yanya Valencia, coupled with image capture of the Legion of Dawn at her side, her own father bestowing upon her the symbol of the rising golden sun. With the seizures of Guild Forges commencing in Antium and Heliost, we have to wonder if the same is being done with the Legions' own legendary Starforge, as well as the many priceless artifacts and discoveries that have put the Legion above and beyond even their normal Lancer kin with their wealth of schematics, blueprints, advanced machinery, rare ingredients and components._

"_This is Sarah Schashner, with Tarsis News Today."_

* * *

Legionnaire Yanya Valencia slowly returned to the land of the living to a body wracked with pain.

The nineteen-year old woman gasped as she tried to sit up at first and felt _everything_ scream in protest at her; her spine, her arms, her legs… _everything_. She lowered herself back down to relieve herself of the hot radiating pain that had her whole body quaking as she bit her lip to keep from crying out. She laid there for a moment, eyes open but not taking anything in as pain dulled her senses and occupied her thoughts until the severity of it faded down to a dull roar and she could at least function mentally well enough. She found herself looking at the timber crossbraces and wooden slats of a roof above where she laid, not recognizing it immediately. A slow look around the small room had her realizing that she was likely in a physicians' ward, seeing a few pieces of equipment normally associated with bonesetting and healing. Her eyes went to one side to find hat she wasn't alone in the room; there was a young man asleep on a chair at the side of the bed she occupied.

"Owen…" The young woman mumbled, her heart faltering at the sight. _Gods Above, Owen…_ it took her long moments for her injury-occupied and pain-fogged mind to make the connection onto how the young man she called _brother_ happened to be here… wherever here was. She had to be at Fort Tarsis, the nearest location she could reach in the shortest possible amount of time when… when…

_Gods… they're all dead._

Her tears woke up her friend and brother.

"Hey, Yanni," Owen Corley woke up to see her weeping, the grief and pain winning out as she cried, the young man leaning forward to take one of her hands into both of his own, his eyes looking at her with concern as she laid there. "I'm here, sister. I'm here for you."

"T-they're all dead, Owen." Yanya gasped out of of numbed lips, her left cheek burning something fierce as she cried, just one of a number of soul-stabbing pains she felt in her body. But none of them, no matter how fierce, drowned the pain in her heart. "I-I saw them fall, I saw each and one of them _die_…" Memory came back of the chaos and battle that was at the heart of a cataclysm, where reality was a fluid as a raging river, much like the air and earth around it. She had fought at the Legions' side; her father, her family, the people she looked up to and believed in. Tears in the fabric of the world had dumps hundreds of strange, unsettling creatures that were mockeries of life and creation, some resembling the beasts of the wild, others too strange for the human mind to comprehend. Yanya had been in the thick of it, fighting alongside her father while the Heart of Rage churned and broiled everything within a couple of kilometers of it, reaching the calamity a near-death experience even before one dealt with the pliability of the earth, the near-water thickness of the air, the constant lightning strikes that turned into explosive detonations cascading paces about, the time shifts, the displacement, the sight of unreal colors that horrified the mind and threatened to void the stomach and bowels… Gods, she had been there. The memories of it were horrifying, her mind twisting to suppress some of the worse of it, when the ground seemed to change its mind about being solid or liquid, when the very air had turned to fire and then to glass, when she had seen a mountain turn itself inside out before sprouting… _nonono, don't remember_, Yanya pleaded, the hot wetness of tears staining her cheeks as she fought off her panic and fear; one of her first lessons in Flight School. The horrors she had seen, the sight of desperate Lancers flying and fighting the impossible only to be crushed, impaled, melted, or shattered… She was pretty sure a couple others had gotten out, but the young woman wasn't sure. The battle had been beyond chaos.

She knew for a fact that her family was dead though; every single one of them.

"Not everyone is dead, Yanya." The Cypher reminded her, still holding her hand. "You made it out. News said a few others did, too. That's something. A bad blow, yes, but Lancers have always come back after tough fights. Heal, meal, repair, prepare, train, and regain." That had the pilot snort; that had been a bit of a nursery rhyme taught to cadets at Flight School about missions. Yes, Lancers had taken a bad blow, but the only way to recover was to get back on their feet and get back to it, to show people they were still around. Seeing Lancers in the sky would inspire people, bring in a few that wished to try, to teach new pilots to help replace the losses. It might be a while before their numbers were truly impressive, but they had to start somewhere.

And starting required getting out of bed, at the very least.

"Did the healer say how bad…?" Yanya looked down at her sheet-covered body, still feeling the moderate-to-severe aches and pains that assailed her in gentle waves.

"It's… not good." Owen allowed, his face sour for having to admit as much. "You have all your limbs, and he thinks nothing is crippled. But it might be a month or more before you're healed enough to even begin training, and probably a week or so before you can even properly get out of bed." That wasn't great news.

"My suit?"

Owen was quiet, didn't even look at her.

"Owen… my suit."

"I… talked to a engineer, Zoe." The Cypher finally said, his blue eyes going to her dark ones. "It's damaged badly, and she doesn't know how to start fixing it without the use of the Starforge in Antium. She lacks… everything, and she is quite good at what she does, but…"

She didn't need to be told the rest. Yanya already knew. Javelin of Dawn suits were crafted by master engineers in the Starforge using expertly made schematics, high-grade components, expensive materials, rare and exotic relics, a foundry capably of melting cadium and turning it into a sophisticated alloy that made up the armor of the Javelin of Dawns. That point there was at least a full quarter of what made a Legionnaire's suit so advanced, able to bounce and deflect most high-energy impacts and even mid-grade explosives. The shielding, the armor, the wiring schematics, the power cores, the blueprints to turn a Shaper relic into something so fine-tuned as to be not only beneficial, but in complete control of the pilot to their needs, the flight thrusters and stabilizers… a Javelin of Dawn suit was _centuries_ of painstakingly-learned trail and error to craft a suit that was well beyond anything else ever fielded, tailored to its pilot. Sentinel Javelin suits were generally simple _Ranger_-Class Javelin suits that had jump capabilities and afforded decent protection, perhaps an extra system to help defend its pilot and defeat their foes. A common Lancer Javelin suit was that plus flight capabilities, perhaps a few extra benefits such as targeting systems, a Shaper relic tuned to craft munitions or explosives, extra Shaper energies bleeding off to invoke the elements.

A Javelin of Dawn suit was created to take on _armies_.

And hers was broken, possibly beyond repair.

"But… I did something. Good, I hope." Owen said quickly as the young woman tried not to think of how her life's' dream was irrevocably shattered. "I went to the Fort's Forge and found spare suits that no one is using anymore, eight of them. Yes, they're in various states of functionality with some damage, but I figured we've got the frames and parts to make something a little more special than the average Javelin suit. I don't know what's needed or how to do it… but you've seen some of the workings of the Starforge, Yanni." The pilot looked to her brother. "You've spent _years_ with the Legion, listening to them talk, their ideas and the little things that even a Lancer doesn't know. Most people are probably under the impression that you just slap some discovered relic or Shaper fragment into your suit and that's that. I know for a fact that each are integrated into the suits' systems for whatever they were designed to be, the electrical systems and the targeting systems used to put it on-line and force it to do whatever it is that you need it to do. You might not have the expertise, but you have some of the knowledge. With that, we… could make _a_ suit that is above and beyond for the time being. Might not be a real Javelin of Dawn, but perhaps we can make something close."

Yanya looked to Owen Corley for a long moment, her mind working it out.

"So, no Antium is what you're saying." The Cypher looked downcast at that. "No Starforge, no trip to the capital, just the two of us in Fort Tarsis?"

"Well… it is a start." The young man allowed, and the look in his eye, one of hope and promise, it came through.

It was enough, for now.

"We're going to need some parchment, a grease pencil, and an account of what we have and what we can afford." Yanya Valencia stated, wincing as she sat up slightly in her bed. "If I'm going to be bedridden for a week, at the very least I can do _something_ to occupy my time; design a suit from the ground up. I need an inventory of those suits, their components, their systems, and their damages. Then I need one of my suit as well." That had the young man nodding. "How much money did those suits cost?"

"You could tell?" Owen looked sheepishly, her brothers' face guilty. "Forty-eight hundred coin. Plus I've been picking up the normal daily jobs being a Cypher, so we have _some_ income to work with, if not much more than normal daily wages. I have no idea how much anything costs pertaining to Javelin suits, but if you give me ideas on what to look for and what to expect in price, then we can start there. We'll just have to, y'know, not eat for the next month or two until we get you flying again."

"Swell." The young woman replied, a sharp pain in her body reminding her of her own personal status. "And Owen?

"Thank you, brother."

"Well, you're going to need a really good Cypher if you want to get back on your feet and put on a Javelin's boots." The Cypher smiled as he stood up, looking at her. "I'll bring in the normal jobs while keeping an eye and an ear out for possible contracts or supporters, pull in some experience while you," Owen leveled an eye at her, "you work on getting better by _taking it easy_." The emphasis was impossible to ignore. "You can push yourself as hard as you want in training, but for now, do everything that will heal you faster, which means being lazy."

"I'm not even sure what that last word was. Never heard of it before." Yanya smiled, remembering something that _he_ once said to her when they were kids.

"Oh, it's this little thing that _normal_ boring people do." Owen replied with a flip of his hand, returning _her_ line back to her. "Lazy equals mediocrity."

"And we're not mediocre." The young woman answered, closing her eyes, remembering that day some nine years prior, coming back to her as fresh as if it had just happened. So much had been lost, but not everything. Yanya was still alive, she had Owen, and a plan to make a suit; either repairing her Javelin of Dawn with substandard parts or modifying a Javelin into something better than average. It wasn't the greatest of starts, but it was a start. Enough to get her focused, to get her working. She had grief and pain within her, but she would work on those.

But for now?

She would bring back the Legion of Dawn, starting with herself.

* * *

Yanya Valencia was hard at work late into the night as she worked under the glow of a glimmer lantern, the light turned low enough only to cast a pall about her room so that she could work on her parchment and journal while Owen slept on a nearby cot, having done a full-days' work for Fort Tarsis as a common Cypher connection. She didn't need to be told how much Owen hated being ordinary at anything, years of being a forgotten orphan as much a catalyst to wanting to be more as the memories of living on the streets and starving were.

She remembered the first day she met him, the spindly little child that had taken her coinbag and ran off with it, chasing the scamp down like a Lancer on a wyvren. She had finally caught up to him after the Gods knew how long, seeing a heavily-winded boy whose clothes were rags and his ribs painfully pronounced, practically a skeleton wearing skin. It had broken her heart, Yanya seeing a boy in which the largest part of him was his head and those too-hungry blue eyes. She remembered her own days of hunger, gratefully ended when her father Paulo had rescued her from a life of the wilds, a Legionnaire pulling a child right out of Hell in his armored arms like an angel of the Shapers. Yanya had been a survivor of a Scars attack when the transportation Strider she had been on had been attacked, the four-legged all-terrain walker brought low when the mutations crippled its legs to get at the people inside the cargo area. Her brother, mother and father had been captured and killed during the attack, along with everyone else. The little girl had avoided that fate by being small; she had stuffed herself in wreckage to avoid being spotted by the monstrosities that were the Scars, sneaking off into the wilds of the Green Depths near Freemark to avoid being killed. She had spent almost an entire year fending for herself in the wilds outside the walls of any settlement or village of Humanity, building herself a tiny little tree fort and arming herself with rocks and sticks. For an entire year, Yanya had survived in the wilds with child-like ingenuity, plucking wild fruits and vegetables, hunting smaller animals with a wooden stick and traps. She remembered well those days, and seeing a boy her age in the same situation broke her heart.

Yanya had taken that boy to the market to buy him food. And clothes. Somewhere along there, she had found herself someone she could open up to.

She looked at Owen's sleeping form, remembering those early days when she would look for her friend, almost feral and so distrusting but so _desperate_ for someone to take him in, a broken heart wanting to mend. When he had fallen off a roof trying to escape her, Yanya had taken his hand and hauled him up, saving his life. The chase had been an exhilarating one, but the sight of whom she had been chasing had been so painful. Instead of punishing him or turning him in, Yanya had given to him what he had been desperate to steal; food. He had gotten something else as well, someone who would look out for him, someone who saw him, someone who cared. Every day she sought him out, taking him along, getting into mischief and adventures while seeing to the boy who was only a few months younger than she. In his eyes, Yanya saw the brother she had lost, the one taken by the Scars. She had lost him without ever having a chance to stop it. She had lost him before she ever had a chance to say goodbye.

She had a chance with Owen. And she took it.

That boy was now a young man, asleep on a cot after a grueling day sitting in an Amplification Chair, passing along messages and whatnot, the normal work of a Cypher. Thanks to the dangers of the wilds in between cities and settlements, travel was a precarious thing, and sending physical messages was just as dangerous as sending ones' self. Cyphers and their telepathic abilities connected the Empire together, a part of the system that kept people connected, from Emperor to custodian. Without Cyphers, cities and settlements would be on their own, _people_ would be on their own, dangers unknown lurking towards them with everyone none-the-wiser. Owen Corley was part of that first line of defense that helped keep people safe, looking out for them by attuning himself to their broken, changing world and looking for the threats that could hurt their people.

She knew without him telling her that he wanted to be more than just a normal Cypher. That he wanted to be _her_ Cypher.

"Did I ever tell you about my first hunt?" Yanya whispered to her brothers' sleeping form, seeing him in the gloom of night as she worked, rotating her one good hand and wincing from the cramp of writing she had gotten done. "A nest of grabbits had decided to burrow at the base of the tree I was living in, and I was hungry. All I had was a sharpened stick for hunting, and I used it more to spear fruits dangling from the trees than I did endangering animals, and I was pretty terrible at it at first." The memories of those first harrowing days on her own came back, days filled with grief and hunger, of living in the outside world where a thousand dangers existed. "Got smart and got a bag filled with rocks to cover up the entrance to where only a small space existed where a grabbit would have to struggle to escape, and I would be there to spear it. I… I cried at my first kill." Grabbits were cute furry creatures that squeaked and knew how to find food and how to avoid dangers. Young Yanya learned the lesson of the grabbit and always kept them in her eyes to warn her of threats before they arrived, followed their tracks towards food. When she had killed her first one, thoughts of how the burrow had been the grabbits' family had infused her thoughts and she felt like a murderer. She had been so desperate and hungry, and she had practically killed the daddy grabbit or mommy grabbit right in front of its family. Yanya had done her best to cut the skin off the grabbit and cook the meat, a messy affair she had no knowledge or training in, doing the best she could. The skin and fur had been used to make a part of a blanket to help ward off the chill of the night, and the meat to feed her. The bones she buried at the base of her tree, the grave dug amiss tears as the young child sang a song for the dead for the grabbit. She had hunted hundreds in her time in the wilds, but she never forgot that one.

"I'm proud of you, Owen." The nineteen year old woman said to her 'little' brother, seeing him sleeping peacefully; a rare look on the face of a Cypher. Yanya knew that hours spent on an amplification chair would give a Cypher bad headaches with all that information being soaked in, their wondrous minds absorbing it all. She wished that he could be a pilot, taking to the skies like a Lancer, but Cyphers in suits were a terrible danger to themselves and others. She had never seen it herself, but Yanya heard stories as a child, and there was always a fresh one when some Cypher got it in their head that _they_ would be different. The most recent story had been of a Cypher that had taken off, lost control, and practically plowed into twenty or so people, killing them all while trapped in the strange beauty of their own mind, unable to mentally control the suit. It was a sad thing. "You get your rest, little brother. We've got plenty of work to do in the days ahead, and we're going to need each other."

Smiling, Yanya went back to her work, where she had the basic outlines of a _Ranger-_Class Javelin Suit with several notations about its armor, weapons systems, targeting systems, Relic-enhanced power core, and harnessed Shaper energies.

Above it, it had simply been entitled _The Excalibur_.

* * *

Author's Note: This chapter is more to give you a little bit of a world view of what is happening politically in Bastion. Yes, the Legion of Dawn's Forge is known as 'the Starforge', which I ripped out of another BioWare Game; Star Wars: Knights Of The Old Republic. Actually… the Star Forge and the Anthem of Creation weren't too different, were they?

Sarah Schashner (the broadcaster) is actually the composer responsible for Anthem's soundtrack.

A few have asked if Yanya Valencia is the Freelancer (you in the game). No, no she is not. You will be meeting Freelancer/Sarah Elmaleh later.

Freelancer (both Sarah Elmaleh and Ray Chase, the respective voice actors for the female and male voices of the Freelancer) will be in this story, and the female Freelancer will be the 'Freelancer' who was with Haluk, Adair, and Miller in the Heart of Rage with the Grey Warden Guild (mentioned in the first chapter). I've already worked on her, and there will be plot and canon divergence pertaining to her, though I think you'll like what I have in mind.

Yes, this might blow a certain action done in the Fortress of Dawn out of possibility.


End file.
